


your insistence is tugging at the best of me

by openmouthwideeye



Series: West Eros High [8]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-10 22:53:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmouthwideeye/pseuds/openmouthwideeye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I only wish you could be around every time Jaime’s feeling grim. I’d be willing to pay you for your services.”</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Brienne doesn't know how to handle Tyrion. Jaime may or may not be helping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your insistence is tugging at the best of me

When they arrived, King’s Landing was blessedly deserted. It was the time of day most kids spent with their families: after extracurriculars and before the evening social scene. Brienne wondered if her dad would worry when she wasn’t home for dinner.

Jaime kicked the door wide enough that both he and Brienne could get inside before it swung shut behind her. He headed straight for a booth in the back left corner. Tyrion was short enough that Brienne didn’t see him sitting there until they had almost reached the table.

Tyrion didn’t question her presence, merely slid further into the booth to allow his older brother a seat. Brienne hovered for a moment, and Jaime rolled his eyes up at her.

“Tyrion, this is Brienne,” he introduced formally, motioning between them with his good hand. “Brienne, my brother Tyrion.”

Brienne nodded awkwardly at Tyrion, who bowed his head politely.

“Now will you sit?”

Pink stained her cheeks, but she gave Jaime a flat stare as she plopped down across from him.

Tyrion made a pensive sound, garnering Brienne’s attention.

“So you’re the girl who saved the poor, misunderstood hospital wallpaper from the holes Jaime tried to glare into it.”

Brienne’s eyes found the menu. She picked aimlessly at a peeling corner, studying the design emblazoned on the front: a large, red tower propping a golden crown, superimposed with the words _King’s Landing_ in fake medieval typescript.

“I guess.”

“I’d say it for a certainty,” Tyrion said it so matter-of-factly that Brienne blinked and met his eyes. One of them was black, the other green. A harder green than Jaime’s: a finely cut emerald beside two glimpses of the sea.

She moved her fingers harshly, ripping away a small corner of the menu.

“I only wish you could be around every time Jaime’s feeling grim. I’d be willing to pay you for your services.”

He sounded so sincere, Brienne didn’t know if he was deadpanning or dead serious.

“Cut it out, Tyrion,” Jaime instructed, stealing a fry from his brother’s plate. “What are you getting?” he asked Brienne, shoving the fry into his mouth with his right hand while trying to sneak another with his left.

Tyrion ducked beneath the plaster elbow. From the longsuffering look he threw towards Brienne, he knew exactly what game his brother was playing.

Neither Jaime nor Tyrion had touched a menu. Brienne had only been there once, though, and she and Margeary had only gotten milkshakes.

“Um,” she flipped it open, and almost asked Jaime what was good before deciding she really didn’t trust his judgment. “Barbeque with onion straws,” she picked at random.

“A bold choice,” Tyrion observed.

Brienne shrugged and went back to fiddling with her menu.

The waiter came and took their orders, and Jaime ordered an extra round of fries for the table.

“Thank you,” Tyrion said pointedly.

“You don’t think I got those for you?” Jaime teased, grabbing a handful from his brother’s basket of fries. From the cheeky grin, Brienne figured he was doing it just to be irritating.

_At least it’s not just me he does that to._

“Those are for Brienne and me. We’ve earned it.”

“Not my fault I’m too stunted to get roped into things.”

Tyrion snapped up the fry Jaime was angling for, stuffing it into his mouth and edging the basket toward the wall.

Jaime shrugged and gave up.

“It’s hard being the attractive one,” he slung an elbow on the back of the booth, lounging back and looking for all the world like a guy in an Abercrombie ad.

Brienne glanced over at Tyrion, wondering how he could be so blasé about it.

“Speaking of,” Tyrion shifted his focus to her.

It seemed to Brienne that his lighter eye looked amused while the black one scrutinized her.

“I’m quite curious,” he began, as Brienne prepared to disappear beneath the table.

Jaime distracted him with an eloquent grunt, flexing his jaw and motioning with his eyes.

Tyrion raised a brown eyebrow, and Jaime moved his golden one in response.

The younger Lannister rolled his eyes, turning to grin at Brienne.

“Jaime says I’m not allowed to mention the makeup,” he informed her. “But I say it’s worth discussing, because you look like you lost a brawl with the M.A.C. counter.”

Brienne sunk down the red vinyl cushion. Her knee knocked against Jaime’s, and she bolted upright.

Jaime’s mouth tightened. He sent Tyrion a threatening look, which Tyrion happily ignored.

“A – a friend thought she was helping,” Brienne explained lamely.

She wasn’t quite sure she could dub Sansa her friend, but she couldn’t think of how else to describe her.

Tyrion nodded knowingly.

“Ah, you lost a brawl with Sansa Stark.”

Brienne wasn’t surprised that he knew who she meant. From what she’d heard, Tryion collected gossip faster than their guidance counselor.

“She was trying to – to,” she couldn’t think of how to articulate ‘save a lost cause’ without sounding like a charity case. She bit her lip, smearing the remains of her lipstick. At least her eyelashes had stopped sticking together. “Yeah, lost a brawl,” she conceded.

“Next time, politely decline,” Tyrion advised.

Brienne wasn’t sure if that was a compliment, or half an insult. She didn’t know if Tyrion knew or cared what she looked like on a normal day.

“You look like you got punched in the mouth,” Jaime grinned, warming to the subject now that it was on the table. His eyes darted to her lips, as if to reinforce his point.

The comment might have stung, but Jaime’s tongue was tracing the seam of his mouth, teeth dragging across his bottom lip as he swallowed his amusement. Brienne didn’t know if she was blushing because of his insult, or because of the low swooping feeling taking over her stomach.

“My lip’s still busted,” Brienne croaked, trying to distract herself before Jaime noticed her staring. She probed the inside of her lip with her tongue. The sharp taste of exposed skin mingled with the waxy, earthen flavor of the lipstick. She scrubbed it off with the back of her hand. “It’s not Sansa’s fault.”

The contemplative smile tugging at Tyrion’s mouth became an appreciative grin.

“You definitely earned it. A hard-won wound, defending a damsel-in-distress.”

“I’ll distress you, shortstack,” Jaime grumbled, not granting his brother the satisfaction of a glance.

“I hear you were epic,” he added, catching Brienne’s gaze. His eyes were speaking in some language she didn’t know. “I’m almost sorry I missed it.”

“You were a little occupied,” Brienne looked away uncomfortably. She didn’t want to talk about the Bloody Marys, or the fight on the ice, or Jaime being carted off on a stretcher and losing all his recruitment prospects.

Jaime seemed okay with that.

He drummed his fingers on the table. Brienne had noticed he did that a lot with his right hand. A nervous tick, like he had to remind himself he could still move _something_.

She could almost feel him squirming to make a joke about her dancing, that at least there was _one_ thing she was good at, that she managed to pulverize her dance partners without even trying.

He didn’t, though.

“Was Lisa Arryn perving on you again?” Tyrion changed the subject.

The mood shifted as Jaime’s expression eased.

“Nah, Peter was there today. Making sure his donation was put to good use,” he smirked.

The food arrived, and Brienne sat back against the cushions as the waiter doled out plates, torn between avoiding the man’s careless arms and eyeing the brothers in confusion.

She wasn’t entirely sure she _wanted_ to know.

“Peter Baelish,” Jaime explained, digging into his food one handed.

Tyrion shook his head like he’d heard just about enough and couldn’t wait to hear more. His eyes were flitting between them as he took a sip of his milkshake.

“The guy with the bad goatee hanging out with the cotillion coaches?” Jaime arched an eyebrow, and she nodded that she’d seen him. “He donates money so he can perv on the debs. Lisa Arryn donates money so she can perv on Peter.”

“And Jaime,” Tyrion piped up.

“But only when Peter’s not around,” Jaime snickered.

“Doesn’t he get in trouble?” Brienne wanted to know. She hadn’t even noticed him this afternoon.

Tyrion shrugged.

“He usually leaves the smarmy comments for Mrs. Stark.”

Brienne must have looked horrified, because Jaime tossed a fry at her. It bounced off her nose and landed on the table.

“Chill out,” he instructed. “Your inner homeschooler is showing.”

Brienne rubbed the grease and salt from her freckles, mouth twisted sourly.

Tyrion muttered something to his brother. Brienne heard the word, “clueless” and figured he was making fun of her. But when he turned to face Brienne, it was to say, “I like you. Jaime,” he commanded, “I officially charge you with bringing her to everything.”

“I’ll have to wrestle her away from Margaery first,” Jaime saved her from having to form an actual reply. “And Sansa Stark, apparently.”

They made it sound like she actually had friends. More friends than the happy couple she third wheeled with at school events.

“I don’t think Cersei would appreciate that,” Brienne swallowed hard.

“Cersei can shove it,” Jaime grunted.

Tyrion was more pragmatic.

“She’ll never have to know,” he assured her.

Brienne suddenly wondered if it was possible they _wanted_ to spend time with her.

Were she and Jaime Lannister friends?

“Thanks,” she smiled, feeling a little overwhelmed.

She snatched up her burger to hide her unease. The sauce was seeping down the sides, and she felt a little grateful that she had to concentrate so hard on not letting it drip past her fingers. It made the rest of dinner a lot more manageable.

Jaime insisted on walking Brienne out to her car, which was kind of silly because she could take almost any guy on her worst day, and Jaime was clearly at a disadvantage. But it kind of gave her butterflies, too, even if she was pretty sure he was only doing it because his mom had shoved chivalry down his throat since before he could walk.

“See?” she muttered obstinately when they reached her door. “I’ve scared off all the pickpockets.”

“Except me,” Jaime said idly, holding up her cell phone for her inspection. He looked far too pleased with himself.

“Jaime,” she protested, annoyed with herself for not even _noticing_ his hand was in her pocket. “Give it back.”

“Nope,” he smirked, twirling it in his fingers.

She made to snatch it, but she was scared of hitting his cast. Jaime was taking full advantage of her concern, twisting his left side away from her so she was constantly coming up against plaster.

She attempted to dart around him, first one way and then the other, but he seemed one step ahead. So she stretched her long arm over his right shoulder, trying to go _over_ instead of _around_. All that accomplished was flustering her. As freakish long as her arms were, they weren’t the length of his _and_ those broad shoulders he braced against her.

She finally gave up, shuffling back and crossing her arms. She resolved to glare him into submission.

“Fine,” he grumbled at long last, dropping his fighter’s stance. “You’re no fun.”

She held out her hand, expectant. But instead of her phone, her palm was suddenly clutching Jaime’s shirt. He tucked into her, slinging his cast around her shoulder and smiling cheesily.

Brienne blinked at the sudden flash, and blinked again as Jaime dropped her phone into the front pocket of her shirt. She blinked a third time, face scrunching as she turned to look at him.

His face was uncomfortably close. She could taste onions on her tongue.

“A memento for surviving cotillion,” Jaime shrugged, scooting free of her.

“A picture with you?” she wasn’t sure if she sounded breathless or irritated.

“That’s going to be worth a lot of money someday,” Jaime smarmed, but there was an undercurrent of doubt, a tinge of bitterness.

“I’ll be sure to tell myself that when I delete this tonight,” she muttered, because she didn’t know how to tell him he was worth it.

“Don’t blame me when coach rips into you for falling asleep on your skates,” Jaime warned amiably.

She furrowed her brows at him, not quite getting it, and he rolled his eyes.

“Because you spent all night staring at my picture,” he explained.

Her heart pounded furiously, so she glared at him.

“Jaime,” Tyrion shouted from the sidewalk. “It’s freezing. Stop flirting with the quarterback and get into the car.”

“She’s tight end!” Jaime called back.

He shook his head at Brienne, rolling his eyes. A stray lock of golden hair fell across his forehead and tangled in his eyelashes, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“And only on the off season,” he acknowledged softly.

They shared a small smile.

Tyrion cleared his throat loudly, and Jaime shrugged a farewell, jogging over to join his brother. He shoved him good-naturedly, and she heard the low murmur of their voices fading across the parking lot.

Brienne stayed rooted, watching them disappear behind the tinted windows of Jaime’s Range Rover.

She knew Tyrion was only joking, trying to get a rise out of Jaime. Still, she spent the entire drive home hearing the word “flirting” reverberate inside of her skull.

She had barely been home 10 minutes when Margaery called. Brienne wondered if the girl had some sort of ESP.

“How was your tête-à-tête with our favorite Lannister?” she asked, the warmth of her tone seeping through the phone line and stilling Brienne’s nervous hands.

“I wasn’t – we just – “

“Relax,” Margaery broke in. “I’m only teasing.”

“Oh,” Brienne sank into the couch, relieved. “Okay.”

“So . . .?” Margaery asked expectantly.

Brienne bit her lip, scrubbing at a bit of barbeque sauce that had ended up on her shirt.

“We just hung out. Tyrion was there.”

“But you had fun, right?” she could practically hear Margaery rolling her eyes. Could practically feel her grinning. “You were the envy of half of cotillion.”

“What?” Brienne sat up sharply. “Why?”

“Sweetie,” Margaery said gently, “Do you know how many girls would kill to walk out of _anywhere_ with Jaime Lannister?”

“People saw us?” she whispered, cringing. “Did – “

She couldn’t ask.

“Yes. Sorry.”

Brienne flinched.

Cersei wouldn’t take that lying down.

“What do I do?”

“Lay low,” Margaery advised.

“I’m trying,” she said, plaintive.

Margaery’s silence told her she was doing a terrible job at it. Brienne wished the girl would tell her what she was doing wrong.

“We’ll take care of it,” the words brooked no argument.

Brienne didn’t ask who “we” was. She was kind of afraid to know the answer.

Brienne kicked off her sneakers, wiggled her feet. They ached, which was weird because no one had stepped on _her_ toes.

“I’m putting in my bid for prom queen,” Margaery said out of nowhere. “And I need you to help me score the jock vote.”

“What?” Brienne couldn’t quite wrap her head around that. “Why?”

Margaery was only a few months older than Brienne, but she took summer classes, so she was technically a junior. Brienne hadn’t thought about that making her eligible for prom court, but Cersei had won as a sophomore, so she guessed she should have seen it coming.

“Because Loras lets his ego run rampant, and he pisses all his teammates off,” Margaery told her. “I need someone on the inside. Someone with the guys’ full support.”

“And that’s me?” Brienne asked doubtfully.

“Sure,” the brunette sounded confident. “Have you seen how the guys look at you since you took up for Jaime? I’m surprised they don’t vote _you_ honorary team captain.”

“They do not,” she protested, frowning at her socks. “I haven’t noticed anything.”

Margaery laughed, high and sweet.

“Trust me.”

Brienne was silent for a long moment. Then she sighed.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked, unable to reign in her suspicion.

“Don’t worry, no speeches,” Margaery sounded more innocent than Brienne thought was proper. “In fact . . . why don’t you just talk to Jaime about it? It’s not like he wants Cersei to win anyway. And he would know how to –”

The more Margaery talked, the more Brienne wished she’d just stayed home that night Sansa’s threw her disaster of a slumber party. 

**Author's Note:**

> Eh. Feedback?


End file.
